Quid Pro Quo
by prone2dementia
Summary: Future fic, oneshot. The directors of MI5 and SO15, the strategists of Defense Intelligence, and the black operatives are all in for quite the surprise. Alex Rider never did live up to expectations.


_No pairings, future fic, warning for profanity and extreme silliness, and a massive thanks to TheUlmuri!_

Quid Pro Quo

Tom was going to kill him. He really was.

Six in the morning, and because of Alex's damned ultimatum, people were already on the porch, knocking eagerly for entrance. Knocks one through thirteen gained no response, for Tom stayed in bed with the cover pulled firmly over his head, hoping—_praying—_that Alex would get over his hangover and answer the door.

No such luck, of course.

There was a reason that Alex never got drunk. No, it wasn't because of his responsibility or maturity or crap like that. And, no, it wasn't because of his job. It was because he couldn't hold his liquor, and the morning after was—

"_Tom! _Get the door and tell them to wait!"

—not pleasant, to say the least.

On any normal day, Alex would be up by five thirty, mostly pleasant and ready for a jog. Not today, though. Not today.

Groaning, Tom rolled off the bed, fell on his back in a tangle of sleep-strewn sheets, and laid there, winded for several moments. When he finally roused the strength to extricate himself, the knocks had grown several decibels in volume, as had Alex's annoyed shouts.

"Dammit, make them stop!"

If it were several hours later, he would have found this painfully amusing. Instead, he merely found this painful.

"I got it. Stop yelling!" Shouting back at the disembodied voice, he tripped down the stairs and into the entrance hall.

A mirror hung beside the door, and he checked his reflection briefly. Still in boxers and a white shirt, he looked anything but presentable. Decorum could go off itself, though, because—

"It's six in the morning. What the hell do you want?"

Unsure of how to react to his outburst, four pairs of black operatives, three strategists, two directors, and one cat stared back at him. The cat must have thought it was really clever, sneaking in between all those legs, but Tom was _onto _it.

"Oh, you stupid mutt. Get off the porch!" From their furrowed brows, Tom could tell that the visitors thought he was talking to them. He made no attempts at correcting the assumption because, honestly, if they were that dense, they didn't deserve to be corrected. "Get!"

"Tom," a voice floated from behind him, sounding bleary and exasperated, "you _idiot_. Nobody calls a cat '_mutt'_."

"I do," grumbled the dark haired man.

"That proves you're a nobody, as I had always suspected." Stepping onto the porch and ignoring the steadfast gazes upon him, Alex bent to the ground and embraced the cat. It purred warmly, its black fur quivering with delight. And it was Not Cute at all, Tom told himself firmly, Not Cute at all.

Arms crossed, he gazed back up at Alex's bloodshot eyes. "Well, I'm the nobody you live with, the one who answers the door when you're too hungover to bother."

The rejoinder had no bite, though, and Alex knew it. With a smirk and a shrug, he cradled the evil fur ball back into the house, leaving confusion to reign in his wake. Without alleviating it, Tom trailed after his friend.

The rest followed, unsure of what to do.

"Liam, are you sure this is a good idea?" a female strategist whispered to her cohort. "He seems...um."

Because he was the only one who had ever visited Alex before, Liam assured her that it was a good idea-just give Alex some time, they shouldn't have come this early.

In the kitchen, they entered upon a strangely endearing scene. Alex was preparing breakfast for the cat, while Tom grumbled in the background.

"One day, your weakness for strays will be the _end _of you."

"Shut up. You're jealous."

"Of a cat?"

"Of a cat."

"..._You _shut up. I have standards, dammit."

"Really? Wouldn't have known from looking at you."

By now, the cat was fed, and Alex was extracting food from the refrigerator. Eggs, cheese, tomatos, and onions were all removed in silence, before the SO15 director could resist no more:

"Ahem. Mr. Rider?"

Dragging a hand through disheveled locks, Alex turned back to them, leaning heavily on the counter. "You're _still _here?"

"What did you expect?" Tom muttered snidely in the background. "That if you ignored them long enough, they'd become a figment of your imagination?"

"Y'know, the teachers always _did _compliment me on my imagination."

The comment served as an unpleasant reminder to the clients: They were dealing with a twenty-year-old, just barely out of secondary school. His hung-over appearance certainly did not increase their confidence in him, and although many testified to his legendary status, they were having a hard time believing it.

"Ahem," the director cleared his throat again.

"Do you need a cough drop?"

"What?—" Caught off guard, the man stared at Alex before recovering enough to say, "No. I – _we_ – need to speak with you."

"Okay, well, I need an aspirin." Leveling Tom with a pointed stare, Alex ventured, "Get me one, will you?"

"Who am I? Your live-in servant?" grumbled the other, peeling himself from his spot, nevertheless.

Once his friend had exited the kitchen and was too far away to retaliate, Alex answered loudly, "Not a live-in servant; you're a nobody, remember?"

An annoyed voice floated back. "You better watch your back, Alex. I'm going to kill you one day."

The clientèle's general opinions, by this point, tended to favor Alex's insanity. They had arrived with prospects of meeting a professional, and Alex certainly hadn't lived up to expectations.

Accustomed to the younger man's strange ways, Liam was the only person who had found the exchange amusing. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the eight operatives were feeling quite offended that they had to deal with this..._child_.

The appearance of Mrs. Jones, MI6's Deputy-Director, only added insult to injury.

"Alex," she said, ducking into the room. "Don't your consultations normally take place in the sitting room?"

Instead of answering, he asked, "How the hell did you get in?"

His inquiry was completely at odds with his unfazed expression. He hadn't even blinked, but the same could not be said about his guests. Mrs. Jones's sudden entrance caused many of the operatives to lurch forward, ready to restrain her in case she was an enemy. Similarly, the strategists and directors experienced a brief moment of anxiety, their faces turning ashen.

They were, indeed, a paranoid group.

To put them at ease, Mrs. Jones responded, "The door was unlocked."

A pause, then, "_Tom, _you left my door _unlocked? _I'm going to kill you – first!"

"I don't think so." The man had returned, shuffling in with a small pill bottle.

Gratefully, his friend accepted it and poured out two aspirins. The bottle's contents rattled hollowly off the kitchen tiles.

"Why not?"

"Well..." A devious smile slid over Tom's face, and he gestured at the bottle. "For one, you trust me not to tamper with your medicine—" In the midst of swallowing, Alex choked, but Tom disregarded him. "So watch your back, and enjoy yourself while you can. Now, _I_ have to go get ready for class."

With that, he exited, leaving behind a room full of dangerous people, most of whom were altogether baffled.

Finally, an operative turned to Alex. "Who was he? Has he signed the Official Secrets Act?"

Alex snorted.

"Tom's a sponge—moved in after we finished school—and trust me when I say this: He doesn't need to sign the Act. No sane person would believe a word he says." Then, checking the clock and glancing forlornly at his uncooked food, Alex offered, "We might as well get this over with. Meet me in the sitting room. Mrs. Jones should be able to show you the way."

Promptly, he turned to pull open the fridge door, preparing to place the egg cartons back on the shelf. Dismissed and left with nothing better to do, the others trickled out.

Once again, Liam was on the receiving end of his counterpart's incredulous inquiries.

"Are you _sure _this is a good idea?" reiterated the female strategist, only to be cut off by a chuckle.

"June, how long have you known me? Do I make bad decisions?" Liam shot her a side-glance, but she merely shook her head in exasperation. "C'mon, if you won't trust my judgment, will you trust the judgment of three intelligence directors?" he tried, nodding toward the trio in front of them.

In the vanguard, Mrs. Jones looked incongruously at ease. The two men with her, who worked respectively for MI5 and SO15, trailed behind. They glanced around constantly, as if fearing a sudden attack.

"They don't even look as if they trust their _own _judgment."

Max, the youngest of the strategists, said hesitantly, "But the fact that they are directors speaks for itself, doesn't it?"

June shrugged, saying no more as they trickled into a spacious room. The drawn curtains, all a dark maroon, blocked out the light conspicuously. No prying eyes would be able to see them here, she noted with satisfaction, and then sank into the cushion of a leather sofa. Across from her, the directors were taking seats as well, and in a straggling, slightly confused line, the remaining black ops followed their cue, finding seats on the various accommodations. Finally, after they were all seated, Alex Rider traipsed in, carding a weary hand through his messy locks. He looked as if he hadn't slept well, and glared at the assemblage with bloodshot eyes and sullen silence. Expecting him to speak, they stared back.

The silence was broken only by discomfited shifting and awkward coughing.

At last, Mrs. Jones began, "I think a proper introduction is in order."

"If you say so." Alex threw himself onto the last, empty armchair, his irreverent slouch contrasting starkly against the black operatives' rigid postures. "Tell me whom I have the _pleasure _to meet."

The word, _pleasure, _suggested quite the opposite of its meaning, but Mrs. Jones overlooked it with ease.

"To my right is Dr. Stephens, director of MI5. To his right is Mr. Elbrus, who heads SO15. Those—" She gestured around her at the eight dangerous-looking agents, sitting on an assortment of chairs. "—are the operatives involved with the mission, and across from them are three strategists from Defense Intelligence. I believe you've met Mr. Liam Taylor before."

Alex aimed a friendly nod at Liam before asking, "I think it's time for you to tell me what's been going on."

"No," a voice protested suddenly, issuing from the congregation of agents. The owner of it looked to be in his thirties, with sandy hair and defiant eyes. "I think it's time for _you _to tell us your qualifications."

"_Mr. Jensen_," Dr. Stephens warned, but the outspoken black op ignored him.

Recalcitrant, Jensen stood and folded his arms. "We were told that we'd be meeting an expert, but you're just a _kid_. And besides, how do we know that you're on our side? How do we know that your house hasn't been bugged?"

The room held its breath in anticipation of Alex's reply. Most of the operatives hoped for an indignant outburst, a list of accolades so that they could be assured of Alex's competence.

Nearly purple with rage, Dr. Stephens just prayed for a quiet resolution. If Jensen angered the former spy, if Jensen blew this _one_ chance at a consultation, he would be fired.

All gazes rested on Alex, as though waiting for a dramatic reaction.

The dramatic reaction didn't come. Instead, Alex disappointed them by merely raising an eyebrow. He didn't appear insulted at all. Rather, he appeared amused.

"Jensen, right?" he asked, and received a curt nod in response. "Well, Jensen, if you don't want to be here, leave."

More silence.

Slowly, Jensen scanned the assemblage, weighing his options. When his gaze found Dr. Stephens, he paled abruptly. Seemingly chagrined, he sank back into his seat to glare at an invisible stain on the floor.

"Good," said Alex, once the clients gave a collective sigh. "And to answer your questions: no, my home is not bugged, and no, I'm not on your side."

"What?" Elbrus said sharply, wondering if he had heard correctly.

The tension in the room rocketed, and the gathering was suddenly on the edge of their seats. Paranoid gazes were tossed around, as if in search of an impending attack.

For his part, Alex only appeared more amused.

"Calm down. I'm not on anyone's 'side'. My house is probably the most neutral territory in all of Europe." Confusion could be detected amongst the lower ranks, and Alex sighed, knowing that he would have to elaborate. "When I turned eighteen, I decided to retire from the spying business. The only problem was that I had made too many enemies, so I remedied that by issuing an ultimatum: Anyone could ask for my help, as long as they provided monetary compensation and a promise. The promise was to respect my neutrality."

"But criminals don't play by the rules," piped a young woman amongst the ops.

"You'd be surprised by how cooperative they can be, once they need help," Alex replied, unfazed.

Since he had first given the ultimatum two years ago, he had counseled countless people, 'good guys' and 'bad guys' alike. Many organizations, from police groups to crime groups, had swallowed their pride to come ask for his opinions and recommendations. However, barring MI6 and Defense Intelligence, the agencies of his homeland had stayed away until now. Something big must have happened for them to actively request his assistance.

"But enough about me." Alex stretched idly. "How can I help you?"

Mrs. Jones, who had been waiting for this opening, launched right in, "It's SCORPIA. Their bases have started reappearing throughout Europe."

"SCORPIA, _again_? What are they? A fucking game of whack-a-mole?" Alex said bitterly, and for a moment, the ghost of his former self seemed to alight in him. "Take out one head and watch another pop back up, huh?"

At that, June spoke up, "What do you know of SCORPIA?"

Again, Alex was at the center of attention, but he wasn't the man to answer.

"June," said Liam, embarrassed on her behalf. "You don't know who you're talking to. Alex is considered the world's leading expert on SCORPIA."

"He – what?" Although it was June who asked the questions, most of the room seemed riveted, awaiting the reply.

"Do you remember hearing about the agent who took down SCORPIA single-handedly?"

"Yes." Of course, she had. Everyone working in a remotely espionage-related occupation had heard of the phantom agent who had toppled one of the world's most notorious crime groups.

"Well..." Liam jerked his head at Alex.

Realizing her counterpart's meaning, June went slack-jawed with shock, unable to respond.

"Yes. By the age of fifteen, Alex had demolished the entire organization."

From their wide-eyed shock, it seemed that June, Max, and the black operatives had trouble accepting the words. Their eyes slid to Alex, who complained faux-abashedly:

"Oh, stop it, Liam. You're embarrassing me. And I didn't demolish SCORPIA. They're back, remember?"

Elbrus cleared his throat. Like Stephens, he had been aware of Alex's achievements, and although it was still surprising to hear them spoken so blatantly, he hadn't lost his speech faculties.

"Yes, SCORPIA has returned, and we've received information about the location of their British base. We want your opinion on the best way to dismantle their operations, without damaging their databases or causing casualties."

Alex nodded, processing the information. It made sense that they'd want to preserve the databases. Available data equaled seized data, which equaled better intelligence. It also made sense that they'd want to take prisoners. Although many would be trained to resist interrogation, some would break eventually. Others would make for good hostages.

"Do you have a blueprint of their base?" Alex asked slowly.

Mrs. Jones drew out a black flashdrive from her inner coat pocket. "It's incomplete, but it's the best that we have."

Taking the object from her, Alex stood to retrieve his laptop from another room. Upon returning, he slid back onto his armchair and balanced the computer on one knee.

"Password?"

Briefly, the Deputy-Head of MI6 glanced at the others. They might have been her allies, but she wasn't prepared for the code to fall on so many ears. She moved to Alex's side, and realizing what she wanted, Alex offered her the computer. With practiced fingers, she tapped in the password and hit 'enter'. Moments later, a map of a building was pulled up.

Alex transferred the laptop onto his glass coffee table, tilting the screen back so that everyone could see. It wasn't ideal, but an actual map would've provided the same difficulties.

Studying the contents carefully, Alex absently asked, "So what've you been planning?"

"We've discussed diversionary tactics. Plant false information, so that SCORPIA thinks we're attacking their compound's most vulnerable sect," said Stephens, leaning forward to indicate the blueprint's northwest corner. "Hopefully, they'll take the bait and move their manpower there. We'll then send a group to attack them from a different angle, a blindside. Meanwhile, the slackened security should allow us to attack the other wings separately. We'll have another group cut their power to prevent data loss and escape."

Contemplative, Alex rested his elbow onto the glass and his chin onto his palm. "You said, '_hopefully,' _SCORPIA will take the bait. In my experience, a plan of this magnitude cannot be based on _hope_."

Stephens opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for what to say.

Smoothly, Elbrus took over. "We've also discussed Trojan Horse tac—"

But Alex had heard enough. He held up his free palm in the universal gesture for 'stop', and then sat back up.

"You're going about this the wrong way," he said simply.

The clients shared confused looks amongst themselves, complete with raised eyebrows and speculative frowns.

"What do you mean?" Liam queried, when no one else seemed ready to speak.

"You are trying to go to _them. _That's not what you want. You want _them _to come to you."

An astonished silence greeted his words, one that could have been observed after a profound religious sermon or a powerful politician's speech. Alex didn't break it either because his clients needed time to digest his suggestion, after all.

Finally, Liam said once more, "And what do you mean by _that?"_

Alex smiled bitterly, his thoughts elsewhere. "Do you know how I took down SCORPIA? Brick by brick. Member by member."

His timbre hinted at fights and struggles, steps backwards and forwards, wins, losses, pain, hope. And enraptured by it, the others—especially the younger agents—dared not speak, dared not _breathe_ for fear of discouraging Alex from continuing. They had completely forgotten the young adult from earlier that morning, the one who bantered with his friend and fed stray cats. They only saw the agent now.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face and ignoring their steadfast gazes, the agent said, "Do you know how you're trying to take down SCORPIA? All at once. It just doesn't work that way."

"...He's right." Being most familiar with Alex's past missions, Mrs. Jones agreed readily. "When Alex still worked for MI6, it wasn't our intention for him to destroy SCORPIA. Believe it or not, what he did was mostly coincidental."

"And gradual," stressed Alex. "You need a new plan, something less rash. You need to siphon intelligence from them slowly, focusing on small sections first. You need to snatch away their agents, whenever you have the chance. When they're weakened, cause a disaster—gas attack, fire, et cetera—that will make them evacuate their quarters. They'll split up, allowing you to seize them easily, and their compound will be empty for you to search."

There was yet another silence, and Alex decided that their reactions were starting to become tediously repetitive. When understanding finally passed through the room—marked by one agent's muttering of, "_Damn_. He's good,"—Alex smirked.

"You're welcome."

He then unfolded from his seat and strode to the curtains, unveiling them. Bars of sunlight slanted into the sitting room, temporarily blinding the occupants. They were obviously being dismissed.

"Your allotted hour is up. If there ever is a 'next time', don't show up so early, or I won't be responsible for my actions. I expect payment by Friday."

The spell was broken. Agent Rider was gone, and plain Alex Rider remained in his stead. It was difficult to reconcile the two.

Blinking to clear their heads, the group got up and began to trudge out, occasionally glancing back at Alex, who stood silently in front of his window. With the sun on his face, he looked young—hung-over, grumpy, _ordinary._

In the hall, June asked quietly, "How can he be so brilliant yet so..."

"Normal?" supplied Liam. "That's what makes him special."

Overhearing them, Mrs. Jones smiled sadly. Alex Rider was indeed special. No one could deny that.

_**. . .**_

This was written many, many months ago, and I thought it was so terrible, I never wanted it to see the light of day - but thanks to **TheUlmuri**, I've actually posted. Lately, I've just been running low on confidence and time, and that's why I haven't written anything. But for anyone who'd been wondering: yes, I am starting the sequel to my other future fic, **Happily Never After**.

Thanks for reading. I hope it wasn't too disappointing, and as always, feedback is appreciated.


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